( Rain is feral by the docks, torrentially disruptive — a force, too mad for reckoning. The young boy who walks the wooden planks with a paltry, eroded piece of cloth spread with both hands over his head, all but asks too be pulled into the waters.

So early in the morning it's yet night, he would hardly be found, come daylight. The currents would drag him, or the shark-men. Tibras offers few kindnesses of welcome to strangers.

He spots America, rushing over to hold out part of his ragged cloth over her head, also. And yet, despite the greeting, mutters: )

You. Your friends took my umbrella. Clara. You smell like her.